


In a Manner of Speaking, I’m Dead

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 03, sherlock: abroad!, the teaser or whatever it was, this actually takes place in that little mini yt vid from however long ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: All it would take is one word. Just one. A single word and John would know. A single word and John wouldn’t have to visit his grave.His chest aches at the thought.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	In a Manner of Speaking, I’m Dead

**Author's Note:**

> ( I am a man with a heart that offends  
> with its lonely and greedy demands )

Two years.

Or would have been, if he hadn’t died.

Sherlock takes pause on a street corner in New Delhi and presses his back against the rough brick of a nearby building. Locals pass him by without so much as a glance, gliding round him as if he were a stone in a riverbed. His hair is longer, wilder, and he has the dark, auburn-tinged scruff of a beard. Coupled with appropriate yet casual clothing and a feigned German accent, he passes quite well for a wandering tourist: dull, average, nondescript. A person no one would bother to look at twice.

He adjusts his left sleeve to glance down at the analogue watch face. It reads six o’clock sharp, the second hand tick-tick-ticking a downward path to the thirty minute mark. It will be half past midnight in London now.

Officially the twenty-ninth of January.

Two years ago today, John limped into the lab at Bart’s with Mike Stamford. Two years ago today, John handed Sherlock his mobile on a whim. Two years ago today, Sherlock was graced with the knowledge that John Watson existed.

Of course, the exact time of that meeting won’t be for several hours yet, but people tend to commemorate the entire day, don’t they? That’s the point of these kinds of things. These… anniversaries. They mark notable events one wishes to remember. Events one wishes to cherish. To reminisce about. To think on what could have been.

Sherlock draws a long breath. It’s winter, but moderately warm air fills his lungs. One of the pros of travelling closer to the equator, he supposes. Less extreme temperatures when it comes to the lows. All sunshine and heat save for the rainy season, and then it’s only heat. Considering the weather during his tour in Afghanistan, John might feel right at home here.

Would he be awake now? Sherlock wonders, running a thumb and forefinger together, letting the distant din of growing traffic sluice him over, waves cresting upon the river stone. Would he be on the sofa in the sitting room, watching mindless telly programmes? Would he be in his chair, reading some of the murder mystery novels Sherlock isn’t supposed to know he has? Or would he be lying in his bed, hands folded, too stubborn to swallow a sleep aid? On the morn that commemorates their meeting, would symptoms of his post-traumatic stress disorder manifest as sleeplessness?

It wouldn’t be an unfounded supposition. They’ve manifested as nightmares in the past. Every now and then, there were early hours in the soft and gentle dark when he would hear John shout and shift in the room above. (Sherlock often took to his violin in those early hours. Chopin. Nocturnes. Always with fine, masterful movements. Never aimless sawing. Soothe and assuage, not agitate.) Other times, John would simply lie in bed with the light on, reading, waiting for the telltale heaviness to tug at his eyes. The morning’s coffee was always particularly strong after such occurrences, the sort that might make one’s spoon stand up.

Sherlock takes comfort in the idea. Not in that John suffers from PTSD or experiences sleepless nights fraught with war dreams or needs exorbitant amounts of caffeine to offset botched sleep cycles, but in that John might share in being conscious at this very moment. That if John were awake, staring at Baker Street’s pale ceiling in restlessness, that Sherlock would also be awake, staring up in restlessness, albeit an entire continent away. It’s a ridiculous thing to think about, he’s aware, but it’s—well. It’s nice.

He swallows, shutting his eyes, and continues to focus on the callused texture of his own fingers as they drag back and forth. Other people brush past, solid and stone-faced in their commutes, chattering in Hindi or Punjabi on their phones. He recognises the occasional word as he’d thought it prudent to brush up on the basics before his visit, but the conversations are scattered and the full subjects escape him. Having only half his attention on his surroundings doesn’t help.

John will visit his grave today. Sherlock knows this because without a reliable source of danger or excitement, John is a creature of habit and keeps to his routines; boredom is shown not through vocal frustration, but through withdrawn repetition. He also knows this because John places great importance on birthdays and other annual events, as evidenced by the seven occasions John tried to glean Sherlock’s own birth date through indirect means and the two occasions he simply asked outright (and received no answer). John visited the cemetery not long after the funeral, which establishes a pattern of behaviour, and if there is anything at all to be said about John’s propensities, it is that he follows them like orders. He will find his way to Sherlock’s gravestone today whether he means to or not.

Sherlock hopes it is the former.

Pulling in another clearing inhale, he opens his eyes and casts an appraising glance to the city around him. Lit streetlamps: winter, dark, not yet sunrise. Thin but growing crowd: too early, few office workers, primarily shopkeepers and labourers. Distant train whistle: same time as yesterday; not for passengers, but for freight. Light murmur of traffic: several nearby motorways, not congested, will be soon.

Sherlock glances back down at the watch face. Not quite five after. Time to move. His presence is required elsewhere this morning. If things fall into place the way he expects within the next three days, Inspector Prakesh and the Delhi Police can take over, and then he’ll be free to move on to the next target. It will be a long journey for a person avoiding travel by aeroplane, but he will gladly suffer the time. With each discovered strand of Moriarty’s web dismantled, with every contact incapacitated and removed, he is one step closer to his mission’s end. One step closer to going home. One step closer to London.

One step closer to John.

Sherlock lowers his wrist and readjusts his shirtsleeve. From his right trouser pocket, he withdraws the burner phone he’d picked up upon entering India. He presses it on, pulls up his empty text message list, and then taps the icon for compose. He lets his thumb hover over the numbers, staring for a long moment as he considers the same thing he has considered every day since he died.

It would be… easy, he thinks. It would. There are numerous ways it could be achieved, and it would all be done with the utmost care. He could expedite the entire process through the appropriate channels, have it be secure from start to finish. He could do it after this morning’s engagement. That soon. That simple.

All it would take is one word. Just one. A single word and John would know. A single word and John wouldn’t have to visit his grave.

His chest aches at the thought.

Sherlock pockets the phone once more and pushes away from the building. Setting a swift stride, he rejoins the flow of New Delhi’s hastening morning atmosphere.

Six steps down. Countless more to go.


End file.
